


In Any Other World (Amour Courtois: The Good King Uther Retcon Remix)

by TheGoodTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)



Series: Straining Courtesy [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Bad Parenting, Canon retcon, Episode: s01e09 Excalibur, F/M, Family Secrets, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lies, Mutually Unrequited, No Incest, POV Uther Pendragon, Self-Doubt, Survivor Guilt, Temptation, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but not THAT bad!, retcon wrecks perfectly good ship, self-restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/TheGoodTwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the thing about children: They grow up.  In a dynasty built on secrets and lies, Uther Pendragon is forced to admit, that can be a very serious problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Any Other World (Amour Courtois: The Good King Uther Retcon Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Amour Courtois](https://archiveofourown.org/works/44643) by [tigerlady (shetiger)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady). 



They dine in near silence. Uther and his son. Morgana has declined to join them, sending word that she is indisposed, though she seemed well enough at the combat ground earlier. Or well enough considering the horrors that were witnessed there by all. Arthur hardly looks up from his plate except to sneak a glance at him when his own eyes turn downwards. Like a child opening one eye to peak and make sure that his mother or his nurse has not disappeared once he's been put down for his nap. Uther sees this but hardly knows what to think of it. Once or twice he tries to start a conversation, but his efforts are anemic and Arthur's responses are the minimum that courtesy requires.

So much has already been said, and so little said about it. Their words hang between them. Uther's 'Certainly more than my own life' no heavier than Arthur's 'I always thought I was a big disappointment.' Arthur seems to have shrugged off his declaration of fault as if it were mere politeness. Uther wants to explain more, but how is a man to say 'I was too broken at your birth to be a decent father.' There simply is no way. “Forgive me,” he says instead, “but it's been an exhausting day and I fear I must retire.” For a moment Arthur looks as though he might object, but then he nods and makes the obligatory noises of concurrence. Giving the King leave to go to his rest.

But rest does not come easily to Uther. He had thought to rest in his grave this night. In some ways, he thinks, it might have been better. A week ago, he would not have welcomed death. But in the last twenty-four hours he has made his peace with it, as he has had to. Letting himself see all of the ways in which his death would now be fitting; the completeness of his life as it is, the justice of outliving Ygraine no longer than Arthur truly needs him, the might and courage of the young king in whose capable hands he would be leaving Camelot, the truth in Tristan's claim to vengeance; has been an important part of that process. These things cannot be unseen. Certainly not in one afternoon. 

So Uther lies in his darkened chamber seeking sleep that hides from him. More than once he gets up to snuff first some and then all of his candles until only the thin, gray light of the moon forbids him total darkness. The night is quiet and still enough for sleep, but Uther's heart is not. His mind races on deep regrets and trivial things alike. Nimueh's question, which has only one answer and no solution. How Merlin's devotion to Arthur impresses him, reminding him so of Gaius and of the importance to a king of having one good servant he can trust. And things that fall somewhere in between. Like the folly of a man who lets his temper and his pride make the most longed for and dearly bought child in all the generations of mankind feel like an unwanted burden, a disappointment. In truth, he does not know how far this particular fault can be blamed upon the circumstances of Arthur's birth. Uther, like all men is his father's son and has learned from him, perhaps too well, the lesson that virtue and excellence should be taken as expected while fault requires correction in even the smallest instance. 

Uther is not sorry that he has raised his son to demand much of himself, to cultivate all of his skills and virtues and to see and correct his slightest faults in all things. How can he be sorry, seeing the result. And yet, he would that he had found more occasions to let the boy know that he was actually doing very well, even as he always let him know that it was possible to do better. Well, Uther smiles to himself, laughs almost, that is one advantage, he supposes, in not being dead yet. There will be time now to let his son know how very proud he is of the man he has become, to look on with loving guidance as the Crown Prince assumes more and more honors and responsibilities. This gentle thought, at last, brings the exhausted king a little peace. As his eyes grow heavier and his heart a little lighter, he drifts off to sleep.

~~~~~

What it is that startles Uther from his sleep, he does not know at first. Later than he'd like, he realizes that it must have been the sound of his chamber door opening. Taunt as his nerves are now, focused as he is upon listening for assassins and calculating the location of his nearest weapon in the darkened room, he finds the time to silently curse his age dulled senses and reflexes. 

A shadow moves within the darkness before Uther's eyes. Seconds from lunging for the dagger strapped to his boot beside the bed, he hears the soft swish of satin slippers across his floor and the shadows resolve themselves into a vague figure of a certain shape and size. Uther smiles with knowledge and relief. It is only Morgana. But quickly as it forms his relieved smile melts into a puzzled frown. More than puzzled. He is apprehensive. What the devil does she mean by stealing into his bedchamber at this time of night?

The moonlight catches Morgana face, so like her mother's, and Uther is reminded, chillingly of another night nearly twenty-five years earlier, another stealthy midnight visitor. His apprehension deepens even as he derides himself.  _She means nothing of the kind, you old fool. What would a beautiful young woman want with your sorry old carcass?_

When Morgana's eyes light on his in the dim illumination from the window beside her and find that they are open, watching her, she gasps. Again, so like her mother. “I'm sorry, My Lord,” she whispers, clasping her hands before her chest contritely, worriedly, “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Then what, pray tell, did you intend?” Uther asks shortly, shifting so that he is not quite so vulnerably recumbent. The knot of dread and guilt in the pit of his stomach and the foolishness he feels for entertaining them aggravate his temper and he is impatient both for her absence and to know her business. 

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she stands there in the pale moonlight. Ringing her hands. Biting her lip. That last is a habit she has learned from Gerlois, actually. Uther is disturbed by the memory of his friend's face, brows drawn together just so, trying to muster the courage to ask him for a truth that, in reason, they both already know, the pained, defeated acceptance in his eyes as he is turned away unsatisfied, to make due with a polite but obvious lie. Morgana's drawn brows and the pale green eyes that peer worriedly from beneath them are nothing like those of Vivienne or Gerlois. It is Uther's own troubled—slightly furtive—expression that faces him as she says, unconvincingly, “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Uther sighs and levers himself into a full sitting position, letting the pains that accompany his movements pass without comment. He has no doubt that her concern for him is genuine, though he is nearly sure there is  _something_ more to her midnight appearance than that, and he has no wish either to aggravate her worries or to strengthen her excuse for being here. “I'm fine Morgana,” he assures her, diplomatically accepting her explanation at face value. “Barely a scratch, and Gaius has already tended to that. You may rest free of worries for my old bones.” Uther gives her a bland, genial look that clearly means feel free to leave. She doesn't.

Morgana is her father's daughter, and whatever is troubling her, she cannot let it go any easier than he might have at the same age. So instead of nodding and begging pardon as a good ward would do, she sits down on the edge of the bed. And still, she does not speak, does not name her concern. She stares down at her hands, working up her courage. Evidently, whatever she has come to say requires more courage than it takes to invade a king's bedchamber in the dead of night, and so the same foolish hypothesis of her intentions nags at Uther's mind again. He dismisses it again, or tries to. But as he watches Morgana's shoulders rise and fall with two quick breaths, preparing to speak at last, Uther has never been more tense. He was more relaxed this morning preparing to go to his death.

When at last she says, her voice at once as harsh and as gentle as a mother's, “What you did today was very foolish,” Uther is nearly faint with relief. It must take great courage indeed, he thinks wryly, for a young woman to scold a mighty king who has slain the living and the dead before her very eyes. Great courage or great foolishness, and Morgana has inherited more than enough of both. “You could have been killed!” she scolds even more shrilly, taking his relaxation, he supposes, for dismissiveness. 

In truth, Uther find himself growing a bit impatient with her. He is after all, her ruler, not her child, and she has no business to speak to him this way under any circumstances. “Protecting my son from certain death was foolish?” he scoffs. “If you think you can convince me of that, Morgana, then you are the only fool in this room.”

Morgana raises her head and juts out her chin in challenge, defiance shining in her eyes, “Arthur is the better warrior,” she retorts bitingly, not taking his mild derision in good grace at all, as he supposes he himself would not in her place. “If _you_ could defeat the wraith,” she adds haughtily, “surely it would have been no match for  _him_.” 

Uther can't help but smile, seeing through her impertinence to the concern beneath, all rancor leaving him. How is it that he had been so well rewarded for all of his worst sins, to have two such fine, strong, devoted children? “Your logic is terribly wrong somewhere,” he teases her mildly, as much warmth as amusement in his voice this time. “But I do not have the energy to argue with you tonight. Let us simply thank the gods that all our house is alive and well this night.” He reaches up to brush the hair back from her brow, to kiss her forehead as he has done so many times, forgetting to expect the sharp pain in his shoulders that will come with this movement, wincing at its effects before he has time to control his expression, unmistakable at this proximity. Proximity? There thighs are touching, there on his bed in their night clothes, he and Morgana, who any fool can see is a woman, not a child to be kissed on the forehead. Before he can stop himself, Uther groans miserably at his own stupidity, making his injury seem even worse than it is, which is bad enough. 

And, so of course, he has set her off again. “You could have died!” she fusses at him, tears shining in her eyes.

“Yet I did not,” he assures her gently, taking her hand in his, ignoring his foolish concern over a 'proximity' she probably hasn't even noticed, unwilling to deny her the comfort she so clearly needs out of his own guilty, unfounded fears. Morgana does not seem comforted. Her soft, small hand feels so much like a child's, trembling in the grasp of his huge, battle calloused fingers. “I'm fine,” he insists, “Truly, Morgana. Do not worry for me.” 

“But I dr—! I  _do_ worry for you, My Lord,” she interrupts her own shrill, frightened exclamation in favor of an almost ghostly whisper, which sounds more frightened still. Uther leans forward, intending to embrace his daughter, to hold her and sooth her, damn decorum and 'proximity.' But his back seizes up, and he can't hold in a gasp. “My Lord!” Morgana all but gasps herself, clutching at his shoulder, “You are hurt, aren't you?” she demands in a tone of gentle accusation. Again, her concern seems almost motherly. 

Uther isn't sure if he smiles or grimaces. “Just a bit of strain, that's all,” he tries to pass it off. But Morgan looks at him sharply, not one to be put off so easily when she is on to something that seriously concerns her. Despite the inconvenience of this particular instance, Uther is both proud that she has this quality and honored that he does concern her so seriously. “It was not the easiest fight I ever had,” he is forced to concede. 

She cocks her head and gives him a frown that has a bit of the spirit of an unwilling smile in it. “And here I thought you were just relieving your afternoon boredom with a spot of play,” she teases him with dourest irony.

“I certainly wasn't bored,” Uther admits as he fumbles for the bottle of ointment Gaius has leaft on the bedside table to ease his aches, “that is true.” He's not sure how long it has been since it's last application but he feels the need for it now. It will be hard to apply on his own, he supposes, perhaps impossible in some places, but it feels very late and he has no wish to drag Gaius from his bed for such a small thing, no wish to be the womanish, over-demanding patient. And he does not wish any other servant to see him so vulnerable. 

Uther's hand meets flesh instead of glass. Morgana'a hand is wrapped around the bottle, the speed of youth having started later and gotten there first. “Allow me to assist you,” she insists, her voice firm and gentle, and Uther suddenly feels himself quite an old man indeed. Against his better judgment, he nods and lets her take the bottle. It is a more intimate form of assistance than a king should ask of his ward, but not, perhaps, than a father may ask of his daughter, and he feels they both understands the truth of their relation, even if one of them is ignorant of the fact. At least with Morgana he has no fear that she will gossip about his injuries, as a servant might. 

He makes one last proforma objection on the grounds of propriety, but there is no force in it. “Take off your shirt,” Morgana commands, ignoring his thin 'protests' completely. Her voice pierces him with a shiver of some emotion that he cannot altogether identify, and the notion strikes him that she will someday make someone a very fine queen. “Lie on your front,” she orders, no nonsense now, speaking with an authority that transcends rank, like that of a physician. He follows her instructions with unquestioning obedience, more so even than he would have done for Gaius, though his arms do protest. He hisses when her slick hands touch his body, burning like hot coals on his naked back in the chill night air of the room, but she does not hesitate at the sound. Morgana lacks Gaius's practiced touch, but she moves surely and with strength. Deep as she has already shown her concern for his suffering to be, she does not let his mere discomfort dissuade her from what she has determined must be done. Yes, someday she will make a marvelous queen indeed.

Someday? Dear Lord, she is older than Arthur, who is a man by any measure. Uther is stabbed by guilt once again. Morgana should have been married long ago. Any decent guardian would have arranged for it as was his duty. It is true that no one has yet spoken to him of her hand, but with the ever persistent, unkillable rumor throughout the land that he means her for Arthur, unless he broached the subject first, who would dare? As it is, he has detained her here too long, merely to be a joy and a comfort to him. If he persists in this course much longer, Uther realizes, he will have hardly done her less wrong than he would have done Arthur, had he allowed him to fight the wraith himself. He will be robbing her of the life she was born to live, dear as the cost of that life has been, for his own self-indulgence. 

Morgana continues rubbing oil into Uther's skin, all the way down his back to the edge of his sleep pants. Her hands feel good, relaxing, even on those muscles that burn and protest. Especially on those, in fact. But when her thumb lingers over a tight band of muscle just above his buttocks, in an area that cannot be said with absolute definiteness to be his back, drawing from him an involuntary moan of mingled pain and pleasure, he is struck with a sense of deep, quiet panic as to how truly inappropriate this is, for a daughter as much as a ward. Perhaps more so. It's time to put a stop to all this, Uther thinks as her hands returns to that same spot yet again, he fears not at all by accident. “Thank you, Morgana,” he says, shifting, trying to get up, which is not easily done from this position with the state his shoulders are in, “you've been most kind, but now I really must—” 

“Shush,” she cut's him off, pushing him back down against the mattress, as much by the force of that gentle, authoritative admonition as with her hands, though those too are very firm in this. As Uther is marshaling himself to protest more forcefully, and wondering at how it is he suddenly needs so much marshaling, Morgana mercifully stops rubbing his back, and he dares to hope that that's an end to the whole business. But it is not. “Turn over,” she tells him in that softly commanding voice of her, “I need to do your chest.”

“Morgana, I—” he tries again. 

“Turn over,” she insists again, poking at his ribs a bit more forcefully than playfully, having none of his objections, and to his slight surprise, Uther obeys. It's the fastest, least painful way to stop her poking at him, he tells himself, which is very much the prodding of a physician or a mother in any case. Certainly not the caress of a lover or seductress by any stretch of the imagination. He's just being foolish again, the King tries to reason with himself, jumping at shadows of past sins like a man who has just been nearly killed by a vengeful wraith. Nevertheless, he clutches the sheet tight to his waist as he turns over, still feeling far too exposed. 

Pouring more oil onto her hands, Morgana begins working on his chest. It's not too bad at first, as she rubs the front of his shoulders and the area just below his collar bones. But he has to close his eyes against the sight of long, dark tresses framing a shadowy face that could be Vivienne's but isn't. When her fingers brush his nipples, Uther swallows a gasp and forces himself to sit up so abruptly that Morgana is forced to pull her hands back. He can no longer pretend. Even if she feels nothing but pure, chasted concern—which Uther frankly doubts—he does.

Soon, Morgana removes all doubt. As she tries first to order and then to persaude him to lie back down, her hands once again reach to strokes his chest, this time moving purposefully and quickly towards his belly with, he is quite certain, no intention of stopping there. Uther reaches and quickly grabs both of her wrists, holding her hands firmly out in front of her. “Thank you, yes that was most... most helpfully done,” he frankly stammers, avoiding her eyes. He knows he must sound like an attlepated fool, but her opinion of his eloquence is the least of his concerns. “You may—if it please—you may—please go.”

She rolls her wrists against his grip and he lets her go, thinking she is trying to stand, to do as he has asked. Instead, she wraps her hands around his arms and uses him to leaver her body forward so that her breasts rest against his chest, their flesh separated only by her much too thin gown. Her lips are inches from his, their eyes locked together as she pleads, “Please don't send me away, My Lord.” Her hair smells of lavender and rose. It surrounds their two nearly touching faces, inviting him to imagine, in spite of his common sense, that the rest of the world has disappeared. 

As many times and for as many different reasons that Uther has wished through the years that Morgana were truly the daughter of Gerlois, he has never wished it more than at this moment. But she is not. She cannot be. If she were, she would not be Morgana, merely another of the same name. Gerlois has given her his name, but names are not the point here. Uther is the only living soul who knows Morgana's true parentage. He has denied the fact, denied  _her_ , hundreds of times, and he will do so hundreds more before he dies. But in this extremity, he cannot deny the truth that is Morgana, daughter of Uther Pendragon. 

“Sweet my child,” he sighs apologetically, pushing her firmly away, but speaking gently, “were I any other man, I would be a fool to refuse you. But as I am your guardian and sworn to protect you, I would be a villain if I did not.”

“But I do not  _wish_ to be protected from you, My Lord,” Morgana insists stubbornly, sitting up straight but making no move to leave his bed. 

“Then you are a fool,” Uther hears himself saying impatiently as he sits up straighter, legs over the side of the bed ready to stand if need be. 

“My Lord, I am not!” Morgana retorts, turning to face him, eyes blazing. “Do you think I have not guessed why you have kept me here so long without the slightest mention of making me a marriage? Even if you had intended me for Arthur, he is of age! It would have been mentioned by now.”

“Morgana, you're wrong!” Uther interjects. 

“I see the way you look at me, the love in your eyes,” she argues stridently, tears streaming her down her face. “I know it is only your vow to my father that restrains you, and I tell you as his sole heir and a woman fully grown, I release you of that vow and will demand no other in it's place!”

“Demand no—?” It literally takes him a moment to understand what she means by this, and by now, she is continuing her argument. 

“I know that you for all the world would not set up a rival to Arthur's honors and estates, I would not ask it of you. Not for myself nor any child of mine.”

“Gods, parish the thought!” Uther gasps in horror, getting to his feet since it appears that she will not. That stops Morgana's tongue at last. She looks up at him, wounded, clearly confused. “Morgana, I confess, I have neglected the matter of your marriage too long, not because I... desire you for myself, but because I love you as a daughter and selfishly, in my loneliness have no wish to be parted from you.”

“You're a liar, Uther Pendragon!” Morgana counters fiercely, standing and advancing towards him. “If your love is so fatherly, why do you tremble and sigh at my touch?” The way she moves her body is somehow both hostile and sexual and for a moment the king finds himself backing up. But at this rate, she will soon have him backed against the wall, which is an absurd position to allow himself to be put into. 

“Morgana,” he says, summoning his hardest, most officially-yet-deeply-displeased tone, grandly flinging out his royal arm and pointing dramatically at the door, “I command you to leave this chamber at once!”

“But, My Lord—” 

“Go!” he shouts, loud enough to wake a sleeping castle, near tears of frustration himself, “Leave an old man to his rest! I find myself in want of neither a wife nor a whore tonight!” The sob that breaks from her as she flees the room at last stabs Uther with regret for his intemperate choice of words, but his regret at her surely temporary distress is nothing to his relief to have her gone. He sits on the edge of the bed a while, holding his face in his hands, letting his heart rate return to normal. 

Late as it is when he finally lays his weary old body down once again, it is still some time before Uther sleeps. When he does, he dreams of that long ago night when Vivienne stole into his chamber and received all that she asked of him and more. He awakes between dawn and sunrise to find that his sheets are damp with more than sweat and turns his mind to the urgent task of finding his daughter a husband. 

 


End file.
